


Oratory Should Raise Your Heart Rate

by firstbreaths



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 14:35:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6083061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstbreaths/pseuds/firstbreaths
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Laurens is a fighter, an aspiring vet student, and a part-time employee at Bargain Books, who's about to get a lesson in love stories from new customer Alexander Hamilton.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oratory Should Raise Your Heart Rate

For the most part, working in a bookshop is peaceful.

John doesn’t usually like to get in the way of customers when they’re browsing; buying books is, he thinks, a deeply personal endeavour. There’s something to be said about admiring the cover art of a potential new novel, feeling the weight of the book in your hand, sizing it up the way you would a potentially compelling argument, or even a potential new friend. He likes the process of trial and error, controlling for personal tastes; should he read yet _another_ YA author trying to be the next John Green, or should he mix it up a bit, have another crack at the classics? 

He’s never had anyone come back to complain that whatever they’d purchased was shit – so most of the time John just hangs out behind the counter, keeping track of the ordering system and marking down the crappy generic crime novels that no one ever buys. As an additional bonus, Angelica also lets him do his homework in the quieter periods. They’re a month and a half into semester, and John’s so far behind on readings for Lee’s class, since the guy seems to think it’s okay to change the syllabus at a moment’s notice, ‘til everyone gets fucking whiplash. 

The day he meets Alexander Hamilton, he’s perched on a stool behind the counter, labelling a diagram of mammalian respiratory systems for his animal physiology class. There’s a few teenagers over by the biographies, and a mother with her thankfully quiet son looking at children’s books, but it’s been a slow day. And then John glances up, only to see someone staggering towards him, face barely visible behind the stack of books he’s carrying.

The books spill out of his arms into a haphazard pile on the counter, revealing a skinny, fidgety boy, who’s looking at John curiously.

“Science major?” he asks, with a nod at his open textbook. “Because otherwise I’m a little concerned that you work in a bookstore, and _that’s_ what you choose to read for fun. Ever heard of Proust? Or Twilight?”

“Zoology major, more specifically,” John says, ignoring the rest of his comment, because mocking Twilight is _so_ 2010\. “Thinking about vet school. But I’m still narrowing down my options.”

The boy raises an eyebrow, like he can’t possibly imagine someone having too many options.

“What about you? Preparing for an economic revolt?” John asks, nodding his head at the pile of books now teetering precariously on the edge of the countertop. It includes a battered copy of the _Communist Manifesto_ , most likely pulled out of the second-hand bargain bin, Thomas Piketty’s _Capital_ and, inexplicably, an unauthorised biography of Kate Middleton.  

“You work at _Bargain Books_ , of course you think a customer buying something _other_ than paranormal teen romance is revolutionary,” the boy replies. His ponytail swishes about his left shoulder as he shakes his head, a few tendrils escaping from the band; he somehow looks both entirely cutting and incredibly unkempt, all at once.

And, well – John can’t argue with that. He’s only working here because it’s easier than asking his dad for spending money.

The boy in front of him continues, apparently unfazed by John’s lack of a comeback. “If you must know, I’m writing an expose for our student newspaper about the shocking resource standards in our colleges and growing inequality among students. Or, at least I will be, if the newspaper relaxes its damn hierarchy enough to let a newcomer to the school write about anything other than upgrades to the swimming complex like we don’t know it’s all just a ploy to lure new students in with sports facilities instead of improving teaching.” He takes a deep breath. “Plus, all the books I needed to make my point were checked out at the campus library.” 

“The irony of college not having the books you need,” John laughs, although truthfully, he’s a little overwhelmed, and he still has no idea what the British royal family has to do with any of this. He’s also feeling a little flustered, because this guy is cute, with an incredibly supple mouth, now that it’s stopped moving long enough for John to focus, and what look like surprisingly strong arms, despite his oversized peacoat and spindly frame. Probably from all the books he seems to carry around, John thinks, noting the bursting messenger bag stuffed under his right arm, in addition to the pile of books on the counter.

John starts scanning the books, looking down at the counter, at the screen, anywhere but at the boy in front of him.

However, the boy must have caught the way John’s eyebrows knit in confusion. “Oh, and I’m also writing a speech about the excesses of the monarchy for my Comparative Political Systems class. I mean, just because I admire Lizzy as an ardent feminist, doesn’t mean I am in _any_ way a royal apologist, no matter what anyone in my class dares to insinuate,” and then he mutters something under his breath that John can’t quite make out, but he’s pretty sure it’s not particularly nice.

"Well, I’m sure your rebuttal will be your crowning glory.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that, lest someone accuses you of being a sympathiser. Or at least terrible at puns.”

John gasps in mock horror, enjoying the way the other boy’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “I’m not sure which charge is worse.”

He finishes bagging the books on the counter, then takes the crumpled pile of notes the boy hands over to him, and carefully counts out the change. There’s an awkward pause, made worse because John just _expects_ this boy to fill it with a rant about the price of knowledge, or something, but –

“Now that you know all of my worst secrets, you could least tell me your name,” he says instead, just in case he wasn’t already fucked enough.

“I’m Alexander,” the boy says, holding out his hand. “Alexander Hamilton.”

It’s the most clearly punctuated thing Alexander’s said in the last ten minutes, and as John returns the handshake, it’s like an errant comma, his thoughts scattered, words spliced, and he struggles to take a deep enough breath as he reaches for the next phrase.

“John. John Laurens.”

And maybe he’s blushing, just a little, but he feels a sense of pride at getting the last word in against this boy, until –

“See you later, “and with a wink, Alexander is gone. 

*****

**John (18:54):** on my way home mon ami. ready for the new scandal ep?

 **John (18:54):** also I met a boy at work today

 **John (18:55):** by met i may mean that I forgot to get his number. Because I’m an idiot

 **Lafayette (18:58):** i cannot wait to hear all about him (after scandal!)

 **John (19:09):** He was a little… intense

 **Lafayette (19:12):** define ‘intense’

 **Lafayette (19:13):** and do NOT take this as an excuse to *finally* compliment my english john laurens

 **Lafayette (19:13):** i know where u live

*****

_Sometimes,_ John thinks, _revolution wouldn’t be such a bad idea._

Starting with the French.

*****

A week later, John’s hanging out at Starbucks, waiting for his shift to start, when Alexander walks in, hair loose around his shoulders and a bulging binder full of papers tucked under his arm.

John spends the few minutes Alexander waits at the counter for his coffee debating whether or not he should say something, or whether he should at least text Lafayette about this encounter, when:

“John Laurens!” Alexander exclaims, marching over to him with a smile that makes his eyes crinkle. “You’re a scientist, right?”

Then, like the answer doesn’t even matter: “Is it scientifically possibly for someone to have an ego the size of a fucking hot air balloon, and yet not get blown away by how full of hot air they actually are?”

“Well, you’d have to light a match under it, first,” John says dryly, reaching out to gather his textbooks back into his bag, so Alexander can take a seat in front of him. “Which, I’m starting to suspect you might have already done?”

Alexander slides into the chair, not even waiting for the last of John’s books to disappear, and takes a long slurp of his drink. John pretends not to notice the long column of his throat, stretched taut as he swallows. “What gave it away?”

 _The fact that you look like a puppy who just shredded his owner’s favourite shoe with no regrets,_ John thinks, except -

“This, actually,” John says, holding up a piece of foolscap paper that had finally escaped Alexander’s clutches, entitled, _Twenty-two reasons why Thomas Jefferson is wrong about everything, see also: that time he couldn’t differentiate between personal and national debt._

  1. _Where do I even begin?_
  2. _Possibly I should begin with that time he made a terrible ‘yo mama’ joke which goes right to the heart of his disrespect for women (also his own mother, who I’m sure was a lovely woman before she had to put up with him)._
  3. _Also if you’re going to attempt to get Madison to back up your ‘yo mama’ jokes, don’t. Having him call someone else’s mother ‘nasty’ might have more bite if he didn’t personally contract more bugs than Egypt during the biblical plagues._



It’s quite a list.

Thomas Jefferson is a senior at Columbia, and editor of the school newspaper, best known for the fiery treatise on free speech he’d written as a freshman when _he_ hadn’t been allowed to write for _The Post_ in his first year of college, and for subsequently using his position as editor to maintain the status quo. Jefferson claims that the articles are chosen by an independent review panel, but John’s convinced half of them are just Jefferson or his friend Madison, writing under different pseudonyms.

It also means that Alexander goes to Columbia as well, which is a good start.

“I’m going to say ‘hello’, like a normal person,” John adds, draining the last of his own coffee, “and then I’m going to do something I’ll probably regret, and ask what the hell your feud with Thomas Jefferson Is about.”

He won’t regret it, not really.

He thinks.

Alexander takes a deep breath, clutching his fingers tightly around his cup. “Hello,” he says, with a soft smile that John might actually mistake for shy, or even a little coquettish, if he didn’t want to read too much into things.

He doesn’t.

Mostly.

Before he can ponder it too much, Alexander continues. “Aside from our feud about his mismanagement of the student newspaper, Thomas Jefferson is a guy in my Advanced Macroeconomics class, although ‘know’ is a strong word, because I couldn’t even begin to fucking fathom what possesses him to act like such a cockhead, and yet –“

Alexander, it turns out, swears a _lot._ John would be lying if he said it wasn’t at least a little attractive. John likes watching him talk, his wild gesticulations, always slightly off-beat with his words; he’s like a remix, there’s so many damn thoughts in his mind and he can never quite settle on just one. It should be exhausting, but somehow it’s energising, and John finds himself throwing in barbs of his own, and once or twice correcting Alexander’s characterisation of Jefferson as a snake.

“Snakes aren’t actually slimy, that’s worms. Also, they unhinge their jaws to eat their pray, so if you’re going with that metaphor, I don’t think Jefferson’s going to choke on a dick.”

“Just shut up and don’t ruin this for me,” and so John lets him talk.

Yeah. John’s not the kind of guy to fall in love with someone he’s only met twice, but everything about Alexander leaves him with an unfathomable itch for something _more,_ caught between his shoulder blades where he can’t quite scratch it.

“And that the European ‘experiment’ – Alexander actually makes damn quotation marks in the air, and it’s a little like he’s curling his fingers around what little resistance John had left, pulling him along for the ride – “was nothing more than poppycock, and that it’s all Greece’s fault for _daring_ it pay its workers a generous pension, like his family doesn’t live off their ability to exploit estate tax loopholes.”

“Jefferson didn’t really use the word ‘poppycock’, did he?” John asks, earning him one of Alexander’s broad grins, the corners of his mouth twisting skywards. “I thought you said he was a Francophile; that’s some British bullshit.”

“In case you haven’t noticed,” Alexander says dryly, “I have a tendency to, uh, embellish.”

Of course, that’s the biggest understatement he’s ever made, except –

“It seems to work on the ladies – and the gents – but it’s never really made me any friends,” Alexander adds, and John shovels the last of his sandwich into his mouth to smother his snort.

He gets it; Hamilton talks too much about _everything_ , in the same way that John spent the first seventeen years of his own life saying nothing, his true feelings locked away in a briefcase full of diaries under his bed. His friendships in South Carolina had been mostly superficial, a contractual obligation to hang out with the other thirteen year olds who cared about Pokémon and didn’t know he was questioning if he even liked girls _that way_. Later, in Geneva, his father’s presence had hung over his head so much that he was too terrified to confide in anyone, even though when he was further away than ever. His father had warned him off the few friends he’d made abroad, even though there was no real need to worry -  John had been disappointed that boarding school wasn’t _half_ as homosexual as the clichés suggested – and, besides -

It’s been five years, and they still don’t talk about Jemmy. 

“Well,” John says, trying hard to keep his tone light-hearted, because some wounds can only be healed by time, no matter how much coffee and cute guys might distract from the pain, “now you’ve got me.”

There’s a lengthy pause, and then Alexander repeats, “you’ve got me,” like he can’t quite believe it.

Neither can John, really.

*****

They finally swap numbers this time around, and it turns out Alexander is a transfer student, coming in for his senior year after starting college in the US Virgin Islands, and Columbia’s a big place, which explains why they hadn’t seen each other around before Alexander came via the store. Although, at the rate that Alexander and Thomas Jefferson are going, John suspects his name might be public knowledge before too long.  Either way, after a lot of back and forth sparring via text message about world politics and their favourite episodes of _The West Wing_ (the answer is always _Celestial Navigation_ and Josh’s secret plan to fight inflation) and how many cups of coffee you can drink a day before it’s bad for your health (John decides it doesn’t _really_ matter, because if they settle on a limit, Alexander would probably just pump it into his veins via IV drip and claim it wasn’t a cup at all), John finally works up the courage to invite Alexander to a rally he’s attending with his friends on the weekend.

John’s not cautious. He’s just – considered. If Alexander is a hurricane, then John is the rainstorm that catches you when you’re stuck outside without an umbrella and you didn’t pay much attention to the weather warning. Nobody expects him anything in particular of John Laurens; people aren’t particularly surprised when he mentions that he’s gay, but he doubts that any of them were questioning his sexuality beforehand, either. It’s also why he (usually) comes off best in a fight; people expect Lafayette to be an obnoxious Frenchman (even though he’s not), and Hercules’ name is enough for people to stay the fuck away (again, for no reason). John, on the other hand, takes several moments to think through all the reasons why punching someone might be a bad idea, and then he takes a swing.

It’s one of the reasons he loves science; you can read journal articles, hypothesise all you like, but eventually you’re just going to have to blow something up. It’s also how he’d settled into student activism, really. He’d collected all the flyers, sat in the back row at a few meetings, and then he’d gone to the Homecoming Week pride rally and proceeded to punch the guy who said Eliza wasn’t enough of a slut to be bisexual in the face.  

He’d earned himself three new best friends that night: Eliza, with her shiny black hair and even shinier outlook on life, who’d later gotten him a job working for her sister; Hercules Mulligan, who’d somehow come from nowhere with a fist that would have done a lot more damage than John’s, if John hadn’t gotten in first; and Lafayette, who had sat with him afterwards while he worried that he might get suspended, or worse, that his father might find out, and then bought him a tub of Ben and Jerry’s and watched a terrible movie with him on Netflix.

Alexander would have been proud, he thinks.

It’s also why he’s so hesitant to invite Alexander; he’s falling hard and fast for this boy, and he _knows_ it; but he’s worked so hard to cultivate a life at college that he enjoys, that’s _his_ and no-one else’s, especially not his father’s, and whilst Alexander being a hurricane typically means getting to experience Mother Nature in all its ferocious, untamed glory, John can’t afford to get swept away.

*****

**To:** team-email-list

 **From:** a.schuyler@bargainbooks-broadway.com

 **Subject:** a passive aggressive email from your boss

Hi employees,

A quick reminder that lunch-breaks are strictly half an hour only, with no exceptions. That includes hanging out at Starbucks with a certain ponytailed college student who enjoys ordering ridiculous frappucino concoctions to annoy the barista. (I’m _still_ surprised Aaron complained about him, it took me a year to learn that he’s actually found himself a girlfriend, although he was incredibly tight-lipped about the details). The point is: I would love to escape this store as much as any of you, but grad school is so much more satisfying when you’re not relying on your Daddy to pay for it _entirely_ , and a girl’s gotta eat and own several killer pairs of high heels.

You’re all adults, you know how to follow the rules.

Kind regards,

Angelica Schuyler,

Manager

Bargain Books Broadway

*****

**To:** a.schuyler@bargainbooks-broadway.com

 **From:** j.laurens@bargainbooks-broadway.com

 **Subject:** RE: a passive aggressive email from your boss

Burr’s problem isn’t the frappucinos, it’s that Hamilton dared Burr to pick a side in the fight about the minimum wage since it, you know, directly affects him.

Also, you should totally try a shot of peppermint syrup in a strawberry frappucino next time. Highly recommended.

(PS. You coming over to mine and Lafayette’s for dinner tonight? Eliza’s volunteered to cook, so Herc will bring a microwave lasagna for when it all goes to hell)

*****

The following Thursday, John’s making his way out of his advanced evolution class, slinging his bag over his shoulder and internally groaning about how much homework he needs to do, when the Professor calls his name and beckons him back inside, to where he’s standing behind the lectern.

Professor Ben Franklin is _ancient,_ compared to the rest of the teaching staff, but there’s a twinkle in his eye whenever he gets off-topic onto the philosophy of science that makes him by far the best teacher John’s had at college. That doesn’t make him any less intimidating though; the guy’s a leader in more scientific fields than John can keep track of. He’s also _crazy_ ; he’s a part-time storm chaser, and once didn’t show up to class for three days because he’d gotten disorientated by a tornado, and then proceeded to crack several Wizard of Oz jokes on his return.

John’s also never been asked to talk to him privately before, and he can’t quite shake the feeling that they’re definitely not in Kansas anymore.

“I was very impressed by your essay, Mr Laurens,” Franklin says, clearly deciding not to beat around the bush. John appreciates his frankness. “You have a very good grasp of Neanderthal genealogy, but what I particularly enjoyed was how you related that back to the _real_ question – what is it that makes us human?”

“Well, sir,” John starts, unsure where to go from here. How _does_ he tell Franklin that the answer to that question is dependent on how mad he is about his father’s short-sighted, racist _crap_ and many beers he’s had after attending a rally?

He could probably say just that (Franklin looks like he’d appreciate some deep, sentimental shit), but instead he adds, “I work at Bargain Books – just casually, mind you, I’d hate for it to distract from my studies - and reading about so many different characters makes me think that everyone has something to bring to the table.”

It’s true, even if lately he’s been reading a few too many of those paranormal romances that Alexander had mocked, because it feels like those rebellious teen vampires with Daddy issues just _get_ him.

“Yes, well – anyone can read, Mr Laurens; it’s how you interpret and use other people’s thoughts to produce your own work that counts.”

 _I know,_ John thinks, thinking suddenly of Alexander and the five emails that came to John’s phone during this class, each detailing a new and more graphic plan to dismember Jefferson, along with the first draft of his letter to the student body about the school’s economic failures and gross negligence towards its students, which have clocked in at a total of 91 pages, plus attachments. John had made it through the first three before he’d texted Lafayette: _so I think I have a crush on a guy who’s either gonna end up working on Wall Street or might just burn it down._ And then, six pages later: _or both._

“I’ll keep that in mind for my next essay, Sir,” Laurens says, twisting the end of his ponytail absentmindedly.   

“By the way, Mr Laurens, I’ve heard on the grapevine you’re applying to vet school,” Franklin replies, with a gentle smile. “If you write another final essay like this, I should be more than happy to provide you with a reference for your application, even though I doubt it will have much sway with all the cats and dogs you’ll need to win over.”

“Turtles, Sir.”

“Excuse me?” Franklin replies, peering down at John from behind his glasses, resting on the bridge of his nose. He suddenly feels so small.

“I want to be an aquatic vet,” he says, like he’s used to articulating this out loud, like it’s something he says all the time. The only other people he’s told without a lot of needling first were Lafayette, who demanded that John inspect his cat Georges for fleas, and Alexander, who just went on a rant about Charles Darwin and how Thomas Jefferson has completed misinterpreted natural selection for his own racist ends, which John took to mean he approves of John’s decision.

He breathes deeply, but Franklin doesn’t seem to pick up on his own internal dilemma.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with cats and dogs, or anything,” John adds, even though Georges, in direct contrast to his namesake – who the _hell_ names their cat after their history professor, anyway – had been an incredibly mangy-looking stray with a bad case of lice until John and Eliza had helped Lafayette give him a bath.  “But there’s something about turtles that I’ve always loved.”

“I agree entirely, Laurens,” Franklin says. “In fact, the turtle can be quite revolutionary, although unfortunately I think their sense of speed sometimes betrays them. If only we could see inside them –“

“Well, Sir,” John says, since he has absolutely no idea where this particular musing of Franklin’s is going, “sometimes slow and steady doesn’t win the race,” and he’s absolutely not thinking of Alexander, of course not. He’s also not thinking of himself and how, now that he’s made a life for himself at college, he’s ready to do so much _more_ with it.

Working in a bookstore means he’s seen his fair share of terrible metaphors, but he thinks comparing his crush to a turtle might take the cake.

“And like I said, Mr Laurens,” Franklin says, stepping down from the podium and taking a few steps towards the door, nodding at John to follow, “I would love to support your application to vet school. It would be a real shame if you were to work at _Bargain Books_ for the rest of your life, though I do appreciate that they classify most of their biographies under fiction.”

“You should meet my friend, Alexander Hamilton,” John says, as they leave, although, on second thoughts, if the two of them spent any extended time together, he would probably never get another word in edgeways again.

Afterwards, he adds, “thank you,” and he’s not sure if it’s for the compliment or the help or the fact that Franklin just took the time to _listen_ , but he means it.

*****

**Alex (21:18):** have I ever told you about my extra credit essay on climate change politics?

 **John (21:21):** no. is there a book I can help you with? because I’m off duty

 **John (21:21):** also how many classes are you taking?

 **Alex (21:22):** just thought this warranted a second opinion. although I should point out before I send it that I’m working from the premise that is not fundamentally an economic or environmental problem but a representation of deeper issues with human nature

 **Alex (22:22):** but also that economic solutions are needed, which creates a tension the market can’t quite solve

 **Alex (22:24):** although maybe i need to more explicitly outline the contradictions of the market economy lest anyone think i’m a republican [vomiting emoji]

 **Alex (22:24):** anyway there’s some stuff in there about anthropocentrism and how we view the environment that you might like

 **John (21:29): …** yes, alexander, I’d love to help

 **John (21:29):** although it doesn’t sound like you need it

 **Alex (22:30):** what if I told you the winner of the class essay contest gets a voucher to starbucks?

 **Alex (22:30):** even though it’s only marginally better than the cafeteria, I can shout you a drink?

 **John (22:39):** what would I ever do without you? [heart emoji]

 **John (22:57):** hang on, did you just assume that you’re gonna win?

*****

That Saturday, John spends a little too much time picking out the perfect sweater to wear to the rally, but even Hercules, who’s usually horrified by John’s trackpants and frayed hoodies, approves. From his knowing smirk as he nods his assent, John knows that Lafayette has filled both him and Eliza in on this – whatever his thing with Alexander is. It _could_ be a love story, John thinks, but with the way their conversations jump from genre to genre, talking about politics and economics and music and whether or not Burr from Starbucks would smile at his own birthday party, they’re probably going to get attacked by zombies or something before the denouement.  So, for the first time in his life, he’s content to think for just a few seconds longer before he makes a move.   

And, at first, the rally goes even better than John expected. Lafayette, Hercules and Eliza are all quickly charmed by Alexander, who rants in French about how crowed the subway is with Lafayette, compliments Hercules’ jacket, and listens to Eliza’s long-winded story about her sister Peggy’s latest romantic conquest with genuine interest. He even brings his own hand-painted signs to protest the secrecy surrounding the Trans-Pacific Partnership, even though John has no idea when he found time to make them since they were both up until 3am texting and working on their respective essays.

As the sun starts to set, the rally dies down, and the five of them begin to cut across the park when Jefferson approaches, seemingly out of nowhere. John knows who he is, but has never had much to do with him – Jefferson wouldn’t _dare_ live in the dorms with the rest of them, and they’ve never shared a class – and it’s fascinating to watch the way his entire body language changes when he spots Alexander. His eyes flick down to Alexander’s shoes, attempting to appear disinterested, even though he crowds in close, like a tiger stalking his prey. The five of them stop still, and Hercules mutters something that sounds like ‘this is gonna be fun’ under his breath.

“Fancy this,” Jefferson says, pointing an accusatory finger at Alexander, who doesn’t flinch. “Alexander Hamilton, the boy who told Washington just last week that trade is the lifeblood of our economy, protesting _against_ a free trade agreement. If I hadn’t seen if with my eyes, I might not have believed it.”

“Well, since your _beliefs_ seem to be pretty flexible, I’m not surprised.” Alexander pauses for a single beat. “I’m assuming that’s how you charm all the girls, since they’re clearly not going for your articles – maybe because you don’t include them.”

Beside John, Eliza makes a small hum of agreement that takes both Alexander and Jefferson by surprise. “What?” she asks, with an almost cloying sweetness to her voice. “Did we wouldn’t notice that your article on why decision making should stay with the faculty boards rather than a school-wide board including student representation didn’t note that our faculty boards are severely lacking in representation of women? Or that the traditionally female dominated faculties, like education, have the least amount of power, even though we’re literally educating future students to grow up and take advantage of the kinds of opportunities _The Aurora continues_ to deny Alexander and others.”

At her words, John and Hercules let out perfectly synchronised woops of joy, until Eliza’s blushing and looking at her shoes. Both he and Alexander could probably use a lesson from Eliza on how to avoid resorting to ad hominen attacks and/or their fists, except -

Quietly, she adds in John’s ear, “if you want to punch him in the mouth I wouldn’t condone it, but I wouldn’t be opposed either,” and in that moment, John is firmly reminded that she’s Angelica Schuyler’s sister. “Just don’t get blood on that sweater – Alex has been checking you out in it all afternoon, and he and Hercules might actually team up to murder Jefferson if it gets wrecked.”

It’s John’s turn to flush; luckily, in the dimming light outside, Alexander doesn’t notice.

“Well, from where I’m standing, y’all a bunch of hypocrites,” Jefferson replies, throwing his hands up, “you criticise _The Aurora_ constantly, Hamilton, and yet you’ve submitted work under at least ten pseudonyms. Although, daring to compare yourself to Holden Caulfield was quite short-sighted, even for you. We’ve all heard the rumours, _tomcat_.”

Jefferson steps forward and instinctively, so does John, his hand brushing against Alexander’s as they move almost in tandem, but before either of them can say anything – or throw any punches -  someone else comes up to Jefferson and places a hand on his arm to stop him. John is seething; he’s not _naïve_ to think that Alexander has eyes for John and John only, especially since they’ve only been friends for a few weeks, but for Jefferson to throw whatever Alexander does in his personal life in their faces is a low blow. And perhaps one of the kind Alexander is used to – Lafayette’s mouth is still hanging open in shock, and Eliza looks about as disgusted as John feels, but Alexander is just smiling nonchalantly, like Jefferson’s taunts mean nothing.

“I would be surprised to see the two of you together, Madison, but I guess listening to Jefferson’s bullshit makes your own sell-out behaviour feel positively saint-like in comparison,” Alexander says to the newcomer, still up on tip-toes like he’s raring for a fight. John can still feel the adrenalin pumping through his own body, and he breathes deeply, reaches behind him and greatly takes Lafayette’s hand to calm himself down.

Jefferson looks between Alexander and Madison, raising an eyebrow. “Something you’re not telling me, James?” he asks, with a smirk that says he _knows_ exactly what the situation between Alexander and Madison is, and plans on using it to his advantage. Most of the tension has gone out of the fight, though, at least for the moment.

Madison shrugs. “We both did Model UN together for three weeks, until _he_ –” he jabs a finger in Alexander’s direction – “decided that the historical crisis council didn’t appreciate his endless ramblings on the subject of German hyperinflation in the 1920s and I decided I had better things to do than stand around and watch him tear the committee apart faster than the _real_ United Nations takes to stick its nose in where it doesn’t belong.”

“The United Nations didn’t exist back in 1921, and the League of Nations was piss-weak on the issue of Germany, anyway,” John points out helpfully, although, according to Alexander, Madison is a former Democrat who’s now planning on voting for the Republicans because Bernie Saunders is _too socialist_ or whatever, so it would probably just be easier to push him into the Hudson, or lock him in a room with Ted Cruz and see if he switches back after hearing his plans to dissolve the IRS. John’s also pretty sure that Madison knew that already, and was just trying to make a point, but whatever.

Alexander shoots him a thankful smile that warms John to his toes anyway – fuck, why are they having this argument outside? The sweater he chose brings out the colour of his eyes, but he’s freezing. Behind him, he can hear Hercules snickering, and he gainfully chooses to ignore it.

“Also,” Alexander says, crossing his arms and frowning, “limiting delegates’ speeches to three minutes is completely arbitrary. They would have been on my side if I’d just gotten to my explanation about the Ruhr crisis of 1923.”

“Three minutes? If you could keep your _damn_ essays to three pages, I might agree to publish something of yours after all.”

Alexander lets out a noise like a strangled cat, as though the thought of restraining himself physically pains him. After a moment, though, he steps back, regards Madison and Jefferson with a look of utter disdain, and shakes his head. “The greatest thing about freedom of the press,” he says, “is that freedom of the press in fact exists, and if you can manipulate it to your advantage, so I can.”

“John?” Alexander adds, turning to him, “You’re with me, right? Lafayette? Eliza? Hercules?”

“Absolutely,” John says, even as he watches Jefferson squirm on the spot, clearly fuming. Even if he hadn’t been one-hundred percent on board already with whatever ridiculous plan Alexander’s concocting already, the subtle crack of Alexander’s voice as he says each of their names in turn, like he’s panicking for a second that they somehow _won’t_ agree, would have swayed him. “Even if it means I need to memorise the entire college’s organisational structure in a weekend, or learn how to use a printing press, or whatever.”

The others also nod in agreement; John can almost hear the gears clicking over in Eliza’s head as she calculates how many cups of coffee and Red Bull they’re going to need to make it through the next week, and whether or not she’ll have to cave and buy them something stronger, like whiskey.

She definitely will.

“I’ll email you the org chart first thing in the morning,” Alexander says, stomping very deliberately on Jefferson’s boot as the five of them march off, only to turn around and smile sweetly at Jefferson, who’s distracted by Madison having a coughing fit.

If nothing else, at least John was right about Alexander making a name for himself.

*****

**@adotham:** fuck brevity. there’s a reason no-one can name the world’s shortest book but we’ve all heard of War and Peace

 **@johnlaurens:** @adotham i think that’s the shortest tweet you’ve ever sent [clapping emoji]

 **@adotham:** it’s funny that Tolstoy warned against creating historical heroes and yet we’ve all mythologised his book as the be all and end though (1/?)

 **@adotham:** in fact Tolstoy himself did not consider war and peace to be a novel, despite it ending up on so many ‘must read fiction’ lists (2/?)

 **@johnlaurens:** @adotham nvm, just make sure you go to bed at some point okay

*****

Afterwards, they go for ice-cream, although Alexander excuses himself with a wave of his hand and a hasty “homework to do.” Which means he’s working on whatever his plan is to bring down Jefferson, because John knows that he’s two weeks ahead in all of his courses.

John’s sad to see him go, not least because he now has his three best friends raising their eyebrows in his direction, a clear indication that they have a lot of thoughts about this situation, and he is _fucked._

“You were not joking about his intensity, John,” Lafayette says, sliding into the booth beside him, their elbows bumping. “Your little bookworm is _mad_.”

“He’s not my anything,” John protests meekly, “except for maybe the reason that I just won the store sales award for the first time since Herc bought all our biographies of Celine Dion.”

“She’s an inspiration,” Herc replies, “and I’m not afraid to punch your lights out if you deny it.”

It’s more likely Lafayette will disagree than John, but luckily – or not – he’s still too caught up in the Alexander drama to bite.

“I am not kidding, my dear John,” he says, sitting up straighter and giving John a stare that runs right to his core, “that boy is _crazy_ , and not just because he willingly associates with a lowly employee of Bargain Books. I feel like he could destroy the entire world with his words, if we let him.”

“He’s too busy trying to build a better world,” John replies quietly, because Lafayette is right; Alexander is ferocious, and even while it’s one of the things John has grown to like most about him, the intensity of his plans to reform the university bureaucracy via text message, the way he brings John into them like he just _knows_ John is itching for a fight, the whole thing could topple down around them any minute.

“Well, I love Alexander,” Eliza says plainly, through a mouthful of milkshake. John’s mouth drops open involuntarily, and he quickly disguises it with a cough, but Lafayette and Hercules are looking at Eliza and nodding - in sympathy or agreement, he can’t quite tell. “But, can you imagine _dating_ him? It would be like running a marathon, except when you get to the finish line, it turns out he’s been running a whole other race.”

And, he can totally see Eliza’s point, but the thing is: John’s spent his entire life sprinting into battles, metaphorical sword up in the air, pissing his father off just enough that going to college in New York to study _science_ became acceptable, preferable to discussing the _other thing_. It comes at the cost of John constantly second-guessing himself, wondering what else he could have possibly done wrong even when he knows that the person he is right now is who he wants to be.

Alexander makes him want to take the long view, contribute to something bigger than himself. Scratch that – John already wants to change the world; he just thinks that task might get a little less burdensome with Alexander right alongside him, holding up one half of the globe. 

Alexander also makes John want to kiss him until neither of them can speak, but that’s neither here nor there. Right?

After a minute of quiet contemplation, he says, “well, the original marathon runner didn’t even know that he was, in fact, inventing the marathon. Whereas Alex has a lot of plans for his life – trust me, I have the inebriated text messages to prove it.”

“It’s true,” Lafayette interjects, shaking his head. “Once I had to translate a highly complex plan to take down a group of racists on Twitter. How is it that his French is as good as mine even when he’s drunk?”

After a moment’s pause, in which John finishes the last scoop of his sundae, he says, “can we all just agree to invite him out with us all the time? Shit just got ten times more entertaining with him in the gang.”

He doesn’t miss the way that Lafayette nudges his knee insistently under the table, or Eliza’s raised eyebrow as she drains the last of her cup, but it’s a mark of their friendship that none of the others say a word as they agree.

Until -

“Fine,” Hercules says, “but just admit it – if this was a Mills and Boons novel you two would be between the sheets right now, instead of fighting with Thomas fucking Jefferson in the streets.”

John leans to his left, grabs Eliza’s empty plastic cup, and flings it at him.

*****

_Dear Student Body,_

_The author wishes to apologise for having to unceremoniously place this pamphlet under your doors instead of publishing it in the student newspaper where it belongs; however, some among us have chosen to selectively interpret the student body constitution in ways that limit our free speech, even as they claim to ardently defend it._

_The spending habits of our current administration are not only fiscally ruinous, they also go against the idea that institutionalised rule should be representative of the people. What’s more, they reinforce a neoliberal hierarchy, in which our college is run for profit: see, the endless spending on advertising our sporting programs to the best student athletes, only to use those athletes to generate money through more advertising and the frankly scandalous cost of a hot-dog at a school football game. To quote John Maynard Keynes: in the long run, we are all dead. And yet, in the pursuit of short-term profits, our university has sold us all out._

_The idea of education for education’s sake, the power that words have to shape our nation, the unmatched joy of experimentation and discovery, are all but forgotten as we simply watch our football team capitulate in front of the opposition. (Were the author not hurrying to make the 3am deadline to print thousands of pages of this rant, they would make a witty comparison between our meathead footballers and the amount of actual meat product in those overpriced hotdogs)._

\- 24 pages later -

_The point remains this: the editorial board of the student paper ought to recognise the folly of restricting freedoms, for restricting freedoms is what ultimately encourages citizen journalism in the first place. You’re all welcome, and please recycle the paper._

_Yrs,  
A. Humble Student _

*

 **@johnlaurens:** when you’ve been up until 5am running a secret mission and you start work at 9 [coffee emoji x2]

 **@rahrahmulligan:** you’d make a terrible spy @johnlaurens (also @adotham owes us big time [beer emoji])

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully Part II should be up soon (and to think this was originally meant to just be a short oneshot)!
> 
> Title from the West Wing (2x07). Sam Seaborn: "Oratory should raise your heart rate. Oratory should blow the doors off the place. We should be talking about not being satisfied with past solutions, we should be talking about a permanent revolution."
> 
> The conversation that John and B. Frank have about turtles is actually alluding to the Turtle War of 1776. Long story short: a member of the Continental Army, David Bushnell, with Washington's approval, designed the world's first military submarine, designed to attack the British navy. It was nicknamed the turtle because it kind of (not really) resembled one; however it was a complete failure because when it was discovered it simply couldn't move fast enough to escape British fire. Ben Franklin knew about the plan and, according to some sources, was responsible for discovering how to light the inside so that the person inside powering it could see what they were doing.
> 
> Feel free to follow me on tumblr @firstbreaths!


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